The Image in the Mirror
by Dark Scar
Summary: This is what happens when you stick me on a plane from Amsterdam to Sydney. Short fic from Chandler's POV. Not very happy. **puts on fake polite smile** This fic is best viewed by C&M fans :) But, whatever. It's more focused on just Chandler, the lovable


OK, I know the deal with Chandler's dad has been settled, but I wrote this a month ago, before I knew anything about it, so please don't review saying "That's not Chandler's dad!" etc. Go easy on this, I wrote this while surviving on cheap dutch coffee. This takes place in season 7, but definitly before TOW Chandler's Dad, although actually, it does kinda get into that episode towards the end (I added it to give it a more Friends-ish touch), but from a different way. It's what could be if Chandler's father wasn't the gay-Vegas-burlesque-guy we all know. Got that? Alllllrighty then. Oh, and you know what I don't own.   
  
~*~  
_____  
  
I'm staring into the mirror, looking at my reflection. In it, there is someone else I see. Someone I havn't actually seen for...nineteen years.  
  
It's been almost NINETEEN years since I saw him last, and yet I can still see his face in mine, as if I'm staring him straight in the eye. The image of him is creeping through my mind. It's unshaven, with cruel dark blue eyes and a scowl playing on it's lips. I remember people always used to tell me I looked like him, and some relatives have said now that I'm older I look even more like him. To me that was the worst insult possible, though I had to nod along and treat it as a compliment. I don't want to look like him, act like him, or have anything to do with him. He is the worst human being I have ever dealt with in my entire life.  
  
Do I hate him? I used to think I did. Actually, it wasn't that many years ago that I let go of the hate and realised he just wasn't worth hating.  
  
Who is this man? I'm beyond ashamed to admit he's my father. The man who caused my whole fear of comittment, the man who caused me to lie to my friends, the man who inflicted unbearable pain on me, both pyshical and emotional, is my flesh-and-blood father. So often I wish that the big lie I have for so long told to my friends was not a lie. I'd much rather my father be the owner of a Las Vegas gay burlesque house than the monster that he really is. Lying to my friends is extremely difficult, and I feel terrible for doing it. It's just that with the gay story, I can joke about it, though I guess that's partly because it's not true. I could never, ever joke about my real father, and the hell he put me through. I'll expand 'hell' a little bit...  
  
My father was an alcoholic, and trust me, that is putting it very mildly. More appropriately, he was a violent, psychotic drunk. Every night was the same. He'd go out at 7:30pm and wouldn't come home till the early hours of the morning. I can remember lying awake in bed, awaiting his return. When I finally heard him stumble through the front door downstairs, my heart would sink and I'd feel this indescribable stab of dread. I learned to expect the same pattern almost every night. Everything would be deadly silent as I waited, wide awake, and then there would be the sound of keys jangling in the door. Then there'd be the loud crash when he stormed in and slammed the door. Then he'd curse and knock things over. And then that silence would come again, only for a few moments, but every time the silence came, I'd have a faint glimmer of hope that he'd passed out and wouldn't cause trouble.  
  
But then the commotion downstairs would start again, this time joined by my mother's voice. She would be arguing with him. He'd yell and scream and her, and she'd nervously yell back, pleading with him to calm down. I knew she was trying to divert him so he wouldn't hurt me, and that made me admire her. She was putting her own safety last, to protect me, and although I was very grateful, I always knew he'd win in the end.  
  
Because then there'd be the slap. Silence would follow, then more brief cursing, and the sound of mom being pushed around. And then came the most terrifying sound of all. The suspense of it was almost like a scene from a horror movie. It was the sound of my father coming slowly up the stairs. With each echoing footstep, I'd be more and more scared. Closing my eyes in fear, I'd shake silently, praying to disappear.  
  
That never lasted for long, because soon my bedroom door would creak open. Light from the hallway flooded in, and then I'd see through half-closed eyes the shadow of my father in the doorway. Occasionally he'd have a liquor bottle in his hand, and if he did, I'd have to prepare myself to be hit with it. Quickly, I'd pretend to be fast asleep. He'd hiss at me to wake up. After awhile I'd slowly open my eyes and act tired. He'd tell me to get out of bed. When I didn't, he'd kick or shake the bed til I did. Sometimes if he kicked the bed, he'd hurt his foot and this would make him more agressive.  
  
The first thing he did was slap me. Right across the face. Always. It was always the slap first. Then he'd grab me by the neck and push me against the wall, or punch me. He'd kick and punch and slap and scream, pulling my hair and spitting in my face. He had this one "move" he often used, where he'd twist my arm, throw me to the floor, stand on my neck with one foot and kick me hard in the side with the other. Usually he'd spit on me after he did that, kick me a few more times, and then leave me shaking on the floor. But I wouldn't cry, that made him more angry. Not pleasant, as you can imagine.  
  
It may seem strange, but what he did to me pyshically didn't hurt me as much as what he did to me emotionally. He constantly told me I was worthless and unwanted. It took me a long time to realise that it didn't matter how hard I tried to please him, or how many A pluses I got, he would never care about me. I remember once when I got a B+ on a test. I came home and mom asked me how school was, and how the test had gone. I told her, not at all thinking that my father, who was watching football, smoking and drinking at the time, was even listening.  
  
But as it turned out, he was. When I told mom about the grade, he jumped out of his seat, a look of fury on his face. He roared at me, yelling at how stupid I was. Mom reminded him that a B+ was very good, and so he pushed her away and told her to shut the fuck up. He turned his look to me, and I was VERY nervous at this point. He grabbed me by the arm, tore the cigarette he was smoking from his mouth, and pressed the burning end against my skin. I still have a little round scar on my arm that reminds me of the pain everytime I see it. When the cigarette was burnt out, he punched me and pushed me onto the stairs. I took the hint and ran up the stairs to my room, where I did all I could not to cry, but the tears came, making me feel worse.  
  
As I said before, I couldn't cry in front of my father. If I ever cried when he was hurting me, he would beat me up even more, claiming that crying was only for sissies, and that I should take the pain. That's why when the door of my room opened while I was still crying that night, I almost shit myself. Luckily, it was mom, already showing a new bruise. She came in after he'd stormed off to a bar. She had tears in her eyes as she hugged me, telling me that daddy was sorry and everything was going to be alright. I remember nodding, although we both knew he'd come home just as hammered as ever. Sure enough, he did. But he didn't beat me up. Instead I had to listen as he smashed mom. I'd rather it had been me, so I didn't have to listen to my mother's cries of pain and my father swearing at her.  
  
It angered me more when he hurt her than it did when he hurt me. That was my mother, and she didn't deserve to be treated like that. At least when he beat me up, I always felt I deserved it, though I know now of course that that isn't true. Still, when he hurt my mother like that, I felt so guilty, because I thought I'd done something to make him angry and he was taking it out on mom. I thought she would end up not loving me because of it. When he hurt mom, that was the worst thing he ever did.  
  
That really came into effect when he raped her a few nights after the cigarette incident. That was the night I truly felt I hated him. It made me so angry to hear him call her all these horrible words that I didn't understand as he forced himself on her. At the time, I was barely nine, so I didn't get what was happening when it did, but I realised it a year or so later. And that made me want to kill him. By then he was out of my life, so that was good.  
  
What I didn't understand when he was in my life, was why he was still in it. I didn't understand why the hell mom didn't just leave him. When I asked her, she would just smile weakly and reply that she loved him. That just didn't seem fair or right. I certainly didn't love him, and couldn't see how mom could.  
  
So I kept tolerating him and everything he did to us. By then I was used to putting on a happy face. Everyone at school thought I was this rich boy with a perfect family. As for mom, she continued with her books, becoming more and more successful. No one knew how unhappy we were. What made me so sad was seeing the other kids' dads, who took them fishing and came to their soccer games. I felt so left out because I didn't have what I considered to be a dad. A dad was someone who cared about you and protected you. All I had was a stranger who intently hurt me.  
  
Eventually mom did leave him. It took her a long time, but better late than never. I was nine years old when they divorced. It wasn't easy. There was a whole lot of fighting, but mom did the right thing and got a restraining order against him and never looked back. I saw him again when I was about twelve. He showed up on the doorstep of our new house, drunk, as always. Mom was on a book tour, and we had a few house keepers living there, seeing as mom had had two bestsellers by then. I remember answering the door, and seeing him standing there. His eyes were red, and he was unshaven. He said hello to me in a friendly way. He actually used my name, which was very strange since usually the only things he'd ever adressed me as contained at least one swear word. He asked to see mom. I stood there for a moment, not speaking. Slowly I shut the door, locked it and walked away. He kept knocking, and I told the housekeepers to ignore it, which they did til he eventually went away, scowling. I watched him go through the front window. As he drove off, I waved. I had a great feeling that that was to be the last time I would see him.  
  
And it was. I havn't seen the bastard since. And I don't want to ever again. But if I did, I swear to God, I would knock him one.  
  
My biggest fear in the world is that I'm gonna turn out to be just like him. I tell myself that that won't happen, but it doesn't stop me from worrying that one day I'll wake up and realise I've become this man that I dispise so much. For years I've been absolutley terrified that I'll be an abusive husband and father. That's why I've always been afraid of comitting to anyone, in case I end up hurting them. When I got together with Monica, the fear eased, because I didn't think it would be possible to hurt her, because my love for her is beyond words. But then I remember what mom told me once. That she and my father were completely in love. That they were perfect together. That their love was unstoppable. That neither of them could imagine life without each other. And then he started drinking so much, and there were lots more fights. Then he got abusive. Mom said that's why she never wanted to leave him, because she kept remembering the good days.  
  
Because I know this, I think, sure, NOW I think I'd never hurt Monica. But isn't that what my father thought about my mother when they first were in love? And I know his father was abusive to him. What if it's like a gene or something? I try not to admit this to myself, but I can't deny that sometimes when Mon and I have big fights, if I'm REALLY angry, I'll get this tingly feeling in my fists. As soon as I get that feeling, I feel like crying, because I don't wanna be my father. I'll back down and aplogize, and the fight will die down. But I don't forget that feeling. The feeling you get right before...right before you punch someone.  
  
Still looking at the mirror. Seeing myself, I understand why relatives say I resemble my father. I do look like him. It's definitly there, no mistaking it, we look alot alike. And mom said I have his sense of humour. I do my best to ignore that. Everyone has some sense of humour, mine is just similar to his. And hey, I can live with the looks. Just as long as I havn't inherited his abusivness. I'm sick with worry that I'll hit my kids the way my father hit me. Mom said that with my father, it started of with him punching her just once, during a fight. He cried, and begged for forgivness, which is what I guess I'd do if I ever hit Monica. But it got worse, and hitting her became a regular accurance. Then it got really bad and he started seriously beating her up. She kept forgiving him, and so it was all those years. What if that happens to me? I don't know what Mon would do if I beat her up. I guess I'm worried that I'll hit her and she'll leave me, just like that, no matter how much I beg. I don't wanna lose her. But if I hit her and she didn't leave...I could end up treating her the way my mom was treated.  
  
I can't bare the thought of my kids growing up feeling about me the way I feel about my father. I don't want them to have to hide bruises and be terrified of me. And so I pray that I never hurt my family. I can't put them through what I went through. I just can't.   
  
But amid all the worrying, I do try to be optimistic. I tell myself I won't hurt Monica, I am NOT my father. I love her too much to ever want to cause her pain. She makes me happy beyond belief, and I love her so much I'd do anything to make her happy. And so I'm just going to keep on smiling the way I have for years. I'll keep cracking jokes to my friends about my gay father in Vegas. I'll keep living the life Monica makes me feel so lucky to be living. But the hurt is still there, and I can't escape it, but I can hide it.  
  
I'm still looking at my reflection, but his face in it is fading. Sure, I look like him. That doesn't mean my life has to be anything like his. I won't let it be, because of how much I love Monica, and how great I know our future together will be. We have great friends, great jobs...well, SHE has a great job. And as long as we have each other, it should be okay. I'm not going to let my past with my father ruin my future with the woman I love. I won't let the fact that I look like him bug me. The little scar on my arm will be ignored. I take a deep breath and turn away from the mirror. That's ME in the mirror, not him. I leave the bathroom, and see my beautiful fiancee and can't help but smile.  
  
"Chandler, we still havn't gotten an RSVP from your dad," she tells me.  
  
"I don't think that's gonna be a problem, sweetie," I grin.  
  
~*~  
  
Not very good, I know. But hey, it's different. Tell me if you thought it sucked, or didn't suck, whatever :P  



End file.
